


Pawns

by Wizard95



Series: Of An Angel and A Demon [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), It's a bit rushed bc it's a tumblr prompt, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, World War I, i suck at naming my fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 15:13:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19275886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wizard95/pseuds/Wizard95
Summary: Aziraphale does what he can to make the world a little less dark during war-time. Crowley tries to understand.





	Pawns

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is my first fic on this fandom (into which I fell, and fell hard, about a week ago?) Haven't read the book, so this might be inaccurate, hopefully not? I hope they're on character though, I come from the TV adaptation here. 
> 
> This is from a prompt I got on [tumblr](https://smuggsy.tumblr.com/post/185695548074/could-you-perhaps-write-some-ineffable-husbandsrel=).

1916.  
  


  Aziraphale often thinks there should be more of them. Angels. More of them on earth, that is. There comes a point in which he realizes he can’t manage it on his own, evil spreads everywhere, people make the wrong decisions, death and sickness are never-ending. He can’t cope. He knows it’s inevitable, it is the way it must be and there’s only so much he can do about it. Therefore what he _can_ do, he will do. And that’s how he finds himself in a hospital in middle London, just standing there in a simple black priest attire, surrounded by wounded and suffering souls, and he looks around and doesn’t know where to begin.  
  


  A young trainee taps him on the shoulder gently, Kitty, he thinks her name is. She’s from Coventry, he recalls.  
  


  “Father?” she gives him a polite smile, and Aziraphale knows she’s been there for a few moments already, trying to get his attention.  
  


  It is difficult to concentrate in such an environment.  
  


  “Oh, yes dear?”  
  


  “This way please”  
  


  Her smile persists, but Aziraphale can sense it isn’t quite genuine. He can’t blame her; after all, who’d feel any kind of genuine positivity in this horrid place?  
  


  _Now, now, that’s what we’re here for, aren’t we?_  
  


  He follows her into an adjacent room, a quieter and smaller room where a copper-haired young man -can’t be older than twenty, Aziraphale considers- is lying almost unmoving on a cot, hands resting over his stomach and eyes covered with a cloth that turns redder by the second.  
  


  The angel takes a slow and shivering breath in.  
  


  This is the difficult part, the part that makes him want to turn on his tail and leave, run away from the tall and imposing building, leave the screams of pain and anguish behind and pretend none of it is happening. Miracle himself away somewhere far from all the death, from all the suffering.  
  


  Much as it pains him, however, he can’t bring himself to be that selfish.  
  


  Kitty leans in closer, “Private Jonathan Miller” she says, same gentle voice, smile now completely faded from her juvenile face.  
  


  “Thank you, dear” he finally returns the kind smile to her, and takes a sit next to the lying form of a wounded soldier. A now-blind ginger young man who has the finest, most delicate fingers -could’ve well have been a pianist, Aziraphale thinks with sorrow, if war hadn’t been unavoidable- and the coldest hands.  
  


  Aziraphale lowers his own hands onto the boy’s -just a boy, really, he’s just a boy- and warms him up in an instant. The soldier barely moves, a hint of a startle only, and the angel leans in closer to him, hands resting still atop the young man’s.  
  


  “You aren’t in any pain, my boy, and you are warm” he tells him, voice barely audible. It has only been a couple of weeks since his good deeds in the hospital, but he has found that talking to them makes it easier. He knows not whether it is his voice or the fact that he’s touching them, but they become more responsive to it.  
  


  Easy. Not exactly the word that he would use in such a situation. It is anything but easy for Aziraphale, making them happy and comfortable in the last minutes of their lives, young men who have gone through the worst, who have lost friends and who are alone and far away from their families and would otherwise die wrapped in cold bedding with no friendly faces or words to reassure them on their impending destiny.  
  


  He will have none of that.  
  


  “Oh, better days are coming, brighter days” he whispers, and makes sure to pass the sentiment onto him.  
  


  He gets the tiniest of whines in response.  
  


  Aziraphale knows this, because he can feel it. More often than not, he can feel their goodness, their regret, their youth and their very souls. Most of these children are bound for heaven, because they are not at fault. Merely pawns on a game of chess, they are, and too young to know any better.  
  


  Too young to be leaving this world.  
  


  Leaving without living.  
  


  Leaving.  
  


  Leaving.  
  


  Leaving.  
  


  “You’re calm, nothing hurts” Aziraphale tightens the grip on the young boy’s hands and leans closer still. He closes his eyes and takes another deep breath in. “You’re in peace, Jonathan.”  
  


  It would be imperceptible to anybody else. Not a move, not a word, not a single sign of a life coming to its end. However long Private Jonathan Miller would’ve been lying on that bed, dead, ignored by busy nurses running about, no-one would’ve known unless they’d approach to check in on his pulse. He was still and cold as a statue before, and so he was now.  
  


  Or, his body was, now.  
  


  Aziraphale lets out the long breath he’d taken in, and sits back down on his chair, letting go of the bony and slender fingers.  
  


  His features are slowly clouded by apprehension.  
  


  He looks up to a clock hanging from the opposite wall.  
  


  It’s barely two o'clock.  
  


  The day has only started, but he pulls himself up on his feet before sentiment can get the best of him. This is what he’s allowed to do. He can’t meddle with things on a bigger scale, he can only do his duty from a point that doesn’t really put a stop to it. It’s infuriating, and if he thinks too much about it, he is overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness that renders him useless. So he _does_ pull himself up. Because the last time he let it affect him he barricaded himself up on his library and didn’t leave for a whole week.  
  


  And for that whole week, a count of thirty-three soldiers passed, he learnt after.  
  


  _It’ll be over soon_ , he repeats in his mind, a phrase that has accompanied him now for days on end, a phrase that has become a mantra to help him push through the darkest days. A phrase that he is mostly unsure of. It will be over soon.  
  


  Today, it isn’t over until about six. He walks his way back to the bookshop under the pouring of rain after promising the Head Nurse he’ll come round in the morning.  
  


  “We have two trucks coming in at eight”, she’d informed him. At that point, Aziraphale couldn’t quite muster any kind of smile, not even a hint of it. He’d nodded and turned around.  
  


  Two blocks away from the hospital he miracles his usual attire back on, and he drags his feet to his shop, little to no energy left within him.  
  


  No sooner has he closed the door behind him than Crowley has suddenly materialized on his couch.  
  


  “Nighty-night, angel!” his loud and chipper voice pierces through the silent and dim-lighted room, and Aziraphale fights back a grimace.  
  


  He is completely exhausted and this is quite possibly the worst time to be dealing with the demon’s occurrences.  
  


  “Crowley.” He acknowledges, taking his drenched coat off and hanging it on the door rack, removing his button vest as well. The vest which is feeling rather constricting against his form - it isn’t so much the cloth as his own feeling of being trapped, of needing to breathe, of needing space, what prompts him to get rid of it.  
  


  When he turns around he isn’t surprised to find Crowley standing there and looking at him like he’s a small wounded animal who needs drying off and feeding.  
  


  “Angel…” Crowley coos, seizing him up and down with a frown, with worry, with understanding, as a pool of water forms underneath his feet.  
  


  Well, he could do with the drying off part, really.  
  


  “Horrid weather outside” he says, a pathetic comment just to make conversation, an intent at hiding his own self from Crowley even though he knows very well that the demon can read him like an open book. “Have you been waiting long?”  
  


  He walks past Crowley, who takes a step aside to let him through, mouth half-open but no words coming out.  
  


  And Aziraphale feels dry from a moment to another.  
  


  “Oh- thank you, kindly” he says, not turning around, making for the kitchen.  
  


  “Aziraphale…”  
  


  “Cup of tea?”  
  


  He’s dry now, but he feels cold nonetheless. A chill has settled in inside, a kind of cold that doesn’t go away no matter how many hot cups of tea he drinks. It only grows stronger by the day.  
  


  Crowley is kind enough to wait until they are both seated before he speaks his mind. It is uncomfortable for the angel, he can’t hide away now, can’t show the demon his back while he busies himself with tins of imported beverages and boiling water and tray-assembling. Now he’s here for Crowley to contemplate, and contemplating him he is, if his facial expression is anything to go by.  
  


  “Just what _exactly_ have you been doing?” He asks, barely a moment after the angel has settled in on the couch, cup of tea in hand. Crowley, for his part, doesn’t even spare a glance to the smoking flavoured-water next to him on the table.  
  


  His voice is gentle, yet there is an underlying feeling of hostility to it.  
  


  “Whatever do you mean?”  
  


  “Don’t play the fool now, you feel like- like-” Crowley gestures wildly in the air, struggling to put it into words. Desolate. Gloomy. Mournful. Drained. “You don’t feel like you” he says, in the end. Because he’s never felt this before, not this much, not with Aziraphale.  
  


  The demon glances at the now-dry coat and vest hanging from the door, no need to out his words on that, looks back at Aziraphale and sees him do the most imperceptible of nods.  
  


  “What? What is it? The war?”  
  


  “Well _of course_ it’s the war” Aziraphale retorts, striving for patience but failing at it.  
  


  “You’ve been trying to stop it or what?” Crowley shakes his head, makes a face, almost mutters out a laugh. The thought of a single angel trying to put an end to such conflict is simply another definition to the word ‘naivety’. “You know it can’t be helped, angel”  
  


  “Yes, I know”  
  


  “Then go somewhere else! Your books won’t go anywhere, you can take my word on that! When have I lied to you? Listen, I’ve been to Thailand recently, they have these temples, oh, you’d love 'em, you need some peace and quiet, recharge your mojo, I can sho-”  
  


  “I’m not going anywhere, Crowley. For heaven’s sake, how can you turn a blind eye?!”  
  


  Aziraphale puts the empty cup of tea down with an aggressive sound, the remaining liquid spluttering out of it, words bursting out of him like venom.  
  


  “How can you not _care_?”  
  


  “I-”  
  


  “You’re a demon, yes, I know” Aziraphale cuts in, because they’ve had this conversation before, time and time again. Good and evil. Light and darkness. They must both fulfil their duties, and asking Crowley why he doesn’t care about people dying is as much stupid a question as asking an angel why he does.  
  


  It is part of their nature and the ineffable plan of which they are barely pawns as well, just like the hundred and thousands of soldiers out there are pawns of another, more earthly and macabre plan.  
  


  Whilst Crowley doesn’t probably bat an eye to a young blind ginger soldier suffering through a head injury, Aziraphale is mortified by it. By the blood, by the inevitable pain and the unstoppable ending of lives. By the calling of mothers and the pleads, by the horror and the fear.  
  


  “Why are you doing this, angel?”  
  


  Aziraphale looks up from his lap and to the demon, and he doesn’t try to hide himself this time. He is tired, he is heartbroken, and he is sleepy.  
  


  “Because I can” he says, with a small voice. “Would it be awfully ungentlemanly of me to doze off for a bit?”  
  


  Crowley blinks at his words, doesn’t say a thing as he shuffles closer to the arm-rest and makes himself as comfortable as he can on the couch. When he lets out a yawn, the demon seems to find his voice again.  
  


  “My, you really did mean that- no, of course, please do, I- bloody hell, you need to slow down on this whole thing, angel…”  
  


  “So sorry, truly I am the worst of hosts…” Aziraphale mumbles, eyes closing.  
  


  “You are” Crowley nods mockingly.  
  


  “…just an hour, I’ll be done in a jiffy.”  
  


  Those are his last words -albeit a little slurred at the end- before he slips into unconsciousness, much to Crowley’s chagrin.  
  


  Using his angelic powers so recklessly till the point of actually _needing_ to rest in order to recharge, that is completely nuts. It shouldn’t be necessary. Leave it to bloody Aziraphale to be too nice for his own good.  
  


  The demon starts up the fire with a simple flick of his hand, a quite aggressive one - projecting his anger is something that he hasn’t quite mastered.  
  


  He sits back down on his chair and waits. Stares at Aziraphale’s troubled features and listens to his uneven breathing for too long.  
  


  “Bollocks” Crowley mouths, and he bites his lower lip in annoyance.  
  


  This is really taking a toll on his angel.  
  


  “Fuck”  
  


  If he could make it better, he would.  
  


  Thing is, this one is really out of his hands. Just like it is out of Aziraphale’s.  
  


  There are some things they simply cannot play a part in -not a significant one, anyway- and this is one of them.  
  


  He stares at Aziraphale, at his hands tightly gripping each other in an anxious manner even in his sleep, at his furrowed brow and tense posture.  
  


  And the demon takes a deep breath in himself.  
  


  He reaches out for Aziraphale’s golden curls -the chair he’s in swiftly moving forwards soundlessly- and runs a gentle hand through them, slowly and delicately enough not to wake him up. The angel’s features are soothed instantly, and Crowley looks down at him tenderly as the tension leaves his body.  
  


  Now, perhaps this is something he can fix.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think, lovely people!  
> Also, come drop a message on my tumblr! ♥  
> This is the first part of a series, I'll be adding other stuff as I write it (duh).


End file.
